


Bitter Medicine

by Patchworkearth



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Gen, Inspired by a Commercial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 16:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12369840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patchworkearth/pseuds/Patchworkearth
Summary: Once, Vossler had been charged with babysitting the young princess. Often, he thinks he still is.





	Bitter Medicine

Vossler York Azelas drew a small, simple blue bottle from a pouch on his belt and handed it to the woman at his feet. “Drink.”

She turned up her nose and shook her head. “I shall not.” His fist tightened around the bottle.

Ashelia B’nargin Dalmasca, princess-in-exile, was attempting to channel her rudimentary white magicks into her own leg from where she lay sprawled out in the sands. A leg, Vossler couldn’t help but note, which would not have the three foot long shard of metal through the calf were she to wear more practical attire. It was a decision fueled by spite, he knew—everyone knew—because the wound that felled her husband, the arrow to the throat that “silenced Nabradia,” had been a matter of ornamentation that would be discussed in historickal texts. He might at least get her to wear greaves from here on. Would that not be a sight, armor plating ending at a bright pink skirt scarce bigger than the length of his hand.

She winced at the pain, but did not sniffle, did not moan. She’d never allow herself the weakness.

He crouched down to her eye level. They were in the shade of a rock outcropping in the Westersand, and thank Faram that the winds were still calm, these hours after the operation. He again proffered the bottle. “Amalia. Drink the potion.”

“I’ve no need of it,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“You forget that I stood at your father’s side on the day your first chocobo ride.” She gave him a glare that could peel paint from stone, that rivaled any heat the Dalmascan sands could offer. More than once had a member of the resistance suggested that “Amalia’s” facial expressions were severe enough to be weaponized against Archades on their own. “You were nine years old, and you felt the bird deserved its freedom. Or rather, that is the tale you spun for King Raminas, as I suspect his freedom would have been more assured without a little girl clutching its plumage.”

“We  _both_  wished freedom, is the tale I spun that day.” She hadn’t the strength for prolonged magick. She wrapped her hands around the shard to pull it free, but when he shook his head she was yet wise enough to heed him. “Were I in that place today, I’d say the same.”

“Aye, but were you in that place today, you’d be astride the bird, and not slipping off to split your head upon the tile of the dining hall in the middle of a diplomatic lunch your father held with Rozarrian envoys.” Vossler flipped the bottle around in his hands. “You looked a fright with the blood running down your face, and you refused the potions offered then as well, and we both know ‘twas a matter of  _taste_ , not constitution.”

“Vossler,” she warned, but he was so tired of those looks.

It was not that Amalia was not capable. In the span of two years she’d taken to the blade as well  as any magicks her tutors had once imparted. She could hit a moving target with thrown explosives during sandstorm winds, and he’d watched her perform the feat thrice. She’d slain soldier and cutpurse alike. But every time a moment of weakness threatened to rear its head, she’d retreat to the haughty tone she had now, the princess voice, the princess faces, as though reminding herself. But she was not in command of the resistance. He was. And today was a perfect example of why that was.

She’d rallied them, made a passionate speech in their Lowtown rathole. He didn’t like her to spend too much time with the men, especially not those he could fully trust, but she’d stormed into that meeting and  _inspired_  them with talk of giving the people a symbol. Of letting them know the fight yet continued. And of course they had cheered. What she couldn’t see was that she could have asked them all to leap from the edge of Dorstonis and they’d have agreed. That did not make such good  _tactics_.

So it was that they’d crept into the Grand Cathedral of Rabanastre, where two years before she’d come to mourn Prince Rasler’s death, and switched the Archadean flag which flew from its highest steeple with Dalmasca’s. Their flag was up but thirty minutes before it was changed. By only four minutes, a Tonberry craft was up there with them, and fire was exchanged.

And so it was that Princess Ashelia, heir to the throne, had leapt upon the Tonberry, jamming her broadsword into the skystone relays. And so it was that the craft drifted lazily out to the Westersands, leaking Mist, carrying her off to a crash landing. That her leg was impaled only was surely the blessing of Faram or some other god with its eye on her.

“If you but drink, I can remove the shard.” Vossler was exercising restraint akin to torture, not to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, not to just force the damned potion down her throat. They’d found her by the trail of dead wolves, but if the Imperials were not so scared of the Westersands, they’d have found her by now as well. And he knew what the people of Rabanastre now said. Not that they were inspired by their flag, but instead that the resistance was  _causing trouble_ , was  _inviting reprisals_.

That they’d likely given their current Consul a black eye was little comfort.

“I can heal myself. I just… need a moment.”

She was spent. He but needed a new tack. He looked at the bottle. “This apothecary is Dalmascan-born, you know. And the salesman, as well, a long-supporter of the resistance. A bangaa, I believe. Possessed of a forgetful mind, surely, that so many of his crates go missing and find themselves in our hands.”

She looked at the bottle.

“When you sit again upon the throne, a fair gift it might be to show favor upon those who have aided us. A queen can only reward so much in fairness, but were she to profess a certain  _preference_  for products, others might be inclined to follow suit. I daresay they’d paint your face on the banners hung in the shop’s windows.”

She tried to glare, but her lip trembled slightly, then cracked into an uneven smile. “You’d have my first decree from the throne be one of  _advertisement_ , then?”

“I’d have your first decree be anything, Princess, so long as it was from the throne.”

Her smile was wry, but she took the damned bottle.

“You can be cunning when you choose, Vossler.”

“Mayhap you’ll then let  _me_  plan the next endeavor.”

She pursed her lips. “Perhaps. It shall take some time before Archades reacts.”

He frowned. “Reacts?”

She nodded. “The Consul will be replaced. And when the new one is installed, we shall strike before he has time to adjust to his new surroundings.”

If she expected him to react, she’d be disappointed. He merely turned, as if surveying the sands for danger, and considered his options. If she continued like this, Dalmasca would  _never_  be free.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a commercial for Square's real life "Potion" drink, which was sold during the time of XII's initial release, and featured images of Ashe drinking them like a model.


End file.
